


the adventures of the not-really-missing princess of wales

by levlinwinlaer



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: F/F, fuck it horse trainer/archer au, sophie's pov i LOVE her i love her i love her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24657436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levlinwinlaer/pseuds/levlinwinlaer
Summary: “The Ninety-Third Annual Oban Archery & Equestrian Games stands alone among its peers,” says Héloïse, who as it turns out is not nice at all and also completely batty and thus perfect for Marianne. “Nowhere else in the North can boast the same skill or repertoire.”
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Marianne & Sophie (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 91





	the adventures of the not-really-missing princess of wales

Sophie is born in a stable.

“On a bale of hay,” Marianne says, on the rare occasion that she lets herself be cajoled into telling the story. “I thought you were a foal, at first. And then I remembered none of the mares were pregnant. Then I thought-“

“This one’s going to be a world of trouble,” Sophie finishes, with a proud smile.

Ten years old, Marianne had been. Eyes wide and dark and solemn, quiet, already far more fond of horses than of people. Sophie had never minded those oddities. She had copied every one of them. Her first word- something Papa reminds her about every single time they fight and she goes to him for sympathy- had been ‘Marianne’.

“Ma’y’anne,” Marianne corrects. “And then you crawled after me everywhere I went.”

“And you got the best stablehand you’ve ever known.”

“Tell me that again when the stalls are mucked out.”

Sophie sighs and goes to get the shovel.

“I think you made Father go grey thirty years early,” Marianne informs her. Sophie plucks the letter from her hand and scans it- from Papa, the farm is well, one of the mares is going to have a summer foal, the oat hay will have to be planted soon, he is tired but no more so than usual. Marianne has made this joke for the last nine years, every time they receive a letter from Papa. It’s the only joke she knows. The origin- Sophie had snuck out of the house with two of the packhorses and spent five days alone on the road. Eventually she had been found curled up on the hay bales in the stable where Marianne had gone to work.

“The roads are complicated,” Sophie protests.

“You were lost for three days!”

“But I got here.”

Marianne’s eyes soften. She rubs her knuckles over the top of Sophie’s head, the closest she ever gets to sentimentality. “You did.”

She had fought for Sophie twice, tooth and nail both times. The first with Papa, who had wanted to take her to the orphanage to live with the children there. Sophie doesn’t remember those times- Marianne rarely speaks of them- but they hadn’t been easy.

The second time Sophie was around to hear Marianne doggedly asking, over and over, to let her stay. Yes, she’s only nine. She can feed the horses, haul water to the trough, muck out the stalls, brush down the ponies. You don’t have to pay her, she’ll room with me. I wrote to my father already. She won’t be any trouble.

Eventually the stableowner had given in. And Sophie had stayed.

Marianne had been- and still is- very kind. Always getting up long before dawn to make sure the horses are comfortable. Sharing her tiny cot with Sophie. Sleeping on the floor when Sophie caught a fever, a bucket of water and a cool cloth at hand. When the stableowner passed, a decade after his wife and sons, he left the stable to Marianne for the goodwill she had shown him.

With that said, Marianne is probably the scariest person Sophie knows. All the boys are terrified of her, so when they need a horse they ask Sophie. Some of them ask her for other things, too, but Marianne’s fist takes care of those ones.

A lot of girls- a surprising number, actually- like Marianne. _Like_ like Marianne. They’re always coming around with gifts of milk and cheese and nice things, but Marianne has no interest in nice things. She only likes the horses and Sophie and Papa. Sophie would hardly be surprised if one day she married a horse.

So the point stands. Marianne does not, _emphatically_ does not, like people.

The woman gives herself away as a foreigner from the second she opens her mouth. Posh accent. Total unfamiliarity with social norms. She seems nice, even though she’s spent the last- hour? who knows- lurking alone in the stable. Most importantly, she has a huge bow slung over her shoulder, the bowstring pressing between the faint outline of her breasts. Sophie doesn’t ogle- whatever she likes, it’s not that- but Marianne _\- huh._ Marianne does.

She introduces herself as Héloïse.

“The Ninety-Third Annual Oban Archery & Equestrian Games stands alone among its peers,” says Héloïse, who as it turns out is not nice at all and also completely batty and thus _perfect_ for Marianne. “Nowhere else in the North can boast the same skill or repertoire.”

Marianne, predictably, is unimpressed. “None of the horses are trained to carry archers.”

“The Games are in six months. I can train a horse in that time.”

Any of their horses could be trained in six months, except Josephine, and Holcomb, who wouldn’t like the sound of the arrow. Sophie sizes her up- tall, definitely, taller than Sophie and maybe even taller than Marianne, and certainly strong. She’ll be able to do it, if she’s patient enough.

“Let’s see you ride, first,” Marianne says. To her credit, Héloïse doesn’t so much as blink.

“That horse,” she says imperiously, pointing at the far end of the stable.

Immediately Marianne shakes her head. “That one’s not to be ridden.”

Sophie doesn’t even have to look to know it’s Josephine. She’s the biggest mare in the stable, temperamental and blind in one eye, and probably the love of Marianne’s life. And she kicks. Hard. Sophie still has the bruises to show for it.

Héloïse frowns, clearly displeased, but doesn’t argue. “Then that one.”

Marianne’s mouth tightens. She has that stubborn bullheaded expression of hers that means she’s about to say no for no reason at all. Well, Sophie reasons, any good sister would save her from herself.

“I’ll tack him up,” she offers. When Marianne shoots her a narrow-eyed look she shrugs unapologetically, and pulls down his saddle pad from the shelf outside his stall. “What? I already groomed him this morning.”

“Fine,” Marianne bites out, and stomps off to go get his saddle. Sweet sweet victory.

“Ruadh has bad teeth,” she tells Héloïse, as she slides the headstall up over his ears and secures the throat latch. “So he has a bitless bridle.”

Héloïse hums, coming to stand just inside the stall. Cautiously she holds her open hand under Ruadh’s nose. He snuffles at the hand, his ears swivelling forward in interest, and Héloïse looks pleased. “I’ve never seen a rawhide one.”

“Marianne made it.” Sophie traces over the noseband- braided with a blue ribbon, to bring out the brilliant red of his coat. The ribbon had cost Sophie a day’s dinner, but it had been worth it. “You’ve used one of these before?”

“Not often.”

Okay. Maybe Sophie should have let Marianne choose a different horse. But, knowing Marianne, she would have put a saddle on Bastard the mule and let him at Héloïse, and if Héloïse dies then that will ruin all of Sophie’s plans. So she’ll just have to make the best of it.

“It’s a little counter-intuitive,” she says. “To turn, just touch his neck with the outside rein. Then the inside rein is just a reinforcement if he doesn’t do it at first. Don’t pull hard, he doesn’t like that. And be gentle.”

Underneath her cloak Héloïse is wearing a man’s clothes- _odd_ \- a loose white shirt, breeches, and high riding boots. Marianne chews on the end of an early shoot of grass and pretends not to look as Héloïse mounts the horse and canters off.

“What do you think you’re doing,” Marianne demands, once she’s out of earshot.

“Isn’t she nice? I think she’s very nice.”

Marianne hates nice people, which is why Sophie is pleased to hear her say, “She’s not nice.”

“Ruadh likes her.”

“Ruadh is a _horse_.”

“Come on.” Sophie rolls her eyes. “That’s high praise.”

“High praise would be if Josephine liked her. Ruadh likes everyone.”

She’s so _stubborn_. Sophie is going to put manure in her bed if she keeps this up. “Isn’t she sort of like Robin Hood?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Sophie points at Héloïse- gold hair flowing in the wind or whatever, sat up completely straight in the saddle, legs long enough that Sophie had tugged out the stirrup leathers almost as far as they would go. Marianne stares for a moment, then scoffs.

“I don’t see it.”

 _Liar_. Just then Ruadh comes clattering to a stop in front of them, Héloïse beaming atop him, and Sophie misses the chance to call her on it.

“Trot, canter, gallop,” Marianne orders. “And jump over that little fence.”

Héloïse inclines her head and wheels around. After the first loop Sophie stops watching her and turns to look at the side of Marianne's face.

“What,” Marianne says, without moving her head.

“She’s good,” Sophie says smugly.

Marianne hmphs and spits out her piece of grass. “She’s alright.”

The way her eyes linger tell a different story.

“One horse for the next six months, then,” Héloïse says, when they return to the stable.

Marianne looks to Sophie, who nods as enthusiastically as she can.

“Fine,” Marianne says, sounding very reluctant. “You’ll have a horse.”

Héloïse smiles, but not really. This seems to be a common theme with her. Not-smiling, Sophie decides to call it. Maybe she'll start a catalogue of all of Héloïse's weird facial expressions. It'll keep her busy until spring at the very least.

“How much?” Héloïse asks, pulling out a purse so heavy that it looks like it might burst. When Marianne doesn’t respond within a second, she shrugs and tosses the _whole thing_ to Sophie, who barely catches it. When she peeks inside she sees more gold than she’s ever laid eyes on in her whole life.

“This is too much,” Marianne says flatly. “Are you trying to buy the whole stable?”

“No.” Héloïse plucks at the bowstring. “It's for more than just the horse. I was hoping you might help me train.”

An unexpected gift- clearly someone up there in the sky is on Sophie’s side. At this rate she might not even have to intervene!

“Absolutely not.”

Nevermind.

“Actually,” Sophie says, diplomatically. “That sounds like a nice idea.”

Marianne makes a sound like Sophie has stabbed her in the back, which is so entertaining that Sophie doesn’t bother feeling guilty about it.

“Come back tomorrow, we’ll talk about it,” she says to Héloïse, who nods and disappears off to whatever fairytale illustration she had come out of.

“Are you serious?”

“I like her.” Sophie gives Marianne her most persuasive pout- eyes wide and pleading, bottom lip trembling.

“Don’t give me that face.”

“Please, Marianne.”

“No.”

“ _Please,_ Marianne.”

Marianne sighs. The battle is already won, but Sophie lets her stand there and chew on her stalk of hay. Good sportsmanship. After a moment, she says, resignedly, “You really like her?”

“I do.”

“Fine.” She tugs the end of Sophie’s braid. “Don’t come to me when you get sick of her after a week.”

Sophie beams. “You won’t regret this,” she promises, and skips off to get the hoof pick.

“Oh, I already am,” Marianne says grouchily.

Ridiculous. This is going to be the best thing that ever happens to her.

(Besides finding Sophie, of course.)


End file.
